


By the Rivers Dark

by Trixen



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-12-09
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:24:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trixen/pseuds/Trixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After 'Bring on the Night' (S7). On a recon in London to find more potential Slayers, Buffy stumbles upon a portal in the ruins of the Watcher's Council Building that sends her hurtling back in time. Stuck fast in the vise of WWII Europe, she bands together with a ragtag group of fighters, which include Potentials, the Slayer of that time, and a pre-'rats in the alley' Angel. Struggling with her feelings for Angel and caught in the lives of her new-found friends, she travels to France and desperately tries to find a way home. Ultimately her choices will change everything. In the forever way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Though I take my song  
From a withered limb,  
Both song and tree,  
They sing for him.  
  
Be the truth unsaid  
And the blessing gone,  
If I forget  
My Babylon_  
Leonard Cohen ‘By the Rivers Dark’  
  
  
  
  
She is dreaming. And she knows she is dreaming, but that does not stop the tidal flow from her mouth as she is banged up against a snowy badland, her body used as timber in a fire, as she says, I want a plate full of salt, a mouth full of gold. I want to roar. I want to be great. Her breath snuffs a candle flame, her hands seek pale flesh between rough sheets, and there are girls, unnumbered, running toward her from lands with names she cannot pronounce.   
  
She thinks she might be dancing now, in burnt darkness, and there is a smell of vinegar or tears. Buffy stretches her arms out, uncertain of her place, and if there is one thing she hates, despises, it is feeling uncertain, off edge, as if she doesn’t belong—  
  
so she scrabbles with her fingers to find parameters   
  
and finds,  
  
a vast ocean of space, and then, the faint whine of engines as the airplane cuts through the stars on its way toward the British Isles. Buffy Summers awakens slowly, unsettled, trying not to tremble. Too girly, too _Xander_. She closes off her mind, sealing it cupboard by cupboard, as she leans her throbbing head back against the rest. Hot stripes of pain cover her arms, her back, her tender breasts. A woman sitting in the next aisle coughs wetly, noisily, tissue crackling in her hand. Somewhere in executive class, a champagne cork makes a soft _pop_ and then there is Giles’ voice, droning in her ear like a bee.   
  
A very British, very pompous bee.  
  
“Are you absolutely certain—“  
  
“As certain as a very certain person,” she reminds him, not opening her eyes. “This is the best offensive I can think of.”  
  
“I do agree, however—“  
  
“And our plan _is_ to be pro-active,” she interrupts.   
  
“I realize that.”  
  
“So what else is there?”  
  
“Wait, research.” Giles’ voice is dry, as if he knows he is defeated. “Seek help that is geographically closer to us.”  
  
“I _do_ , I don’t wait,” Buffy says acidly. “Action-y plans are my specialty. Besides, we don’t need a knight in shining armor. We need girls in chain mail.”  
  
“I hadn’t so much envisioned Angel as a Knight, but—“  
  
“I didn’t mean him,” she says, but her bones break a little, at the name. A symbolic break, a little shuddering. She hates it and knits herself together, crossing her arms across her chest and relishing the sting sting of pain. Why, she wonders, does everything always come back to _that_. “I need major muscle. Potentials are the way of the future, Giles. They are _supposed_ to be fighting this war with me. If we can find them—“  
  
“It may lead to their deaths,” he says quietly, sipping his drink. The smell of gin, like sharpness, and the bubbles of the tonic. “You must know that. Can you keep that on your conscience?”  
  
“I have to.”  
  
He sighs, almost inaudibly, the breath like smoke against the pressurized air of the cabin. “Would you like a drink?”  
  
She surprises herself. “Will they have paper umbrellas?”  
  
“Hardly.” But there is a smile there. “A glass of wine, perhaps? A cup of tea?”  
  
“We’re not in England yet,” she warns. “Wine it is. Red if they have it.” Shaping with her hands, she clarifies, “a big glass. Grand Canyon big.”  
  
A few moments later, a flight attendant hands Buffy a miniature bottle of red wine, and a plastic cup that wavers slightly with the motion of the plane. They are hitting each air bump on their way out of the States, and she thinks it might just be the First, speeding them along. Pouring the wine, she takes a long drink, coughing slightly at the dryness of taste. The wine glows in the heart of her throat, glows and glows.  
  
“I have some pain medication,” Giles says.  
  
Buffy shrugs. “Slayer healing. All the cuts’ll be gone in a couple of days.” She pauses, takes another long drink from the well of her glass. “You think I’m being too impulsive, right?”  
  
“It is not your impulsiveness that concerns me, Buffy.” He seems to be choosing words carefully, like he might choose oranges, still sun-warm, inspecting them for cracks or sourness. “I must admit to worrying that your motives might not be especially philanthropic at this juncture.”  
  
“Philawhat?”  
  
“Spike.”  
  
A hot, sick crawling in her chest. “I don’t—I can’t explain what he means to me—I mean I can’t explain our relationship or even what it is—I don’t even know. But he’s innocent in all of this—“  
  
“In this, perhaps—in life, not at all. Once, he was a vicious predator.”   
  
“Not anymore.”  
  
“No one can be sure of that,” he says mildly. “I would caution you not to base a plan around the assumption that Spike is worth risking—“  
  
“This plan means more bodies,” Buffy says shortly. “It means more ammo. I can’t fight a war without that.”  
  
“Potentials are not bullets, Buffy. Nor are they stakes or knives—they are young girls, just like you were once yourself.”  
  
“That was Riley speak,” she sighs. “Sorry. I just meant that I _need_ help. I’m admitting it. I need help.” She glares at him. “Thanks for making me say it. I want to win this one—and right now I don’t think that we can. I can’t go in there with Willow and Xander and wave sticks around, pretending that we have a hope in Hell. This is bigger than anything we’ve ever faced.”  
  
“I would agree.”  
  
The wine bottle is empty and her belly feels floaty, disturbed. “Tell me about the Council. The building. What’s in it?”  
  
Giles takes off his glasses, sets them on his tray table. His ankles are crossed and she can see his socks, thin and black against pale hairy skin. He opens his mouth and then closes it again, ever mindful of words and their impact. Finally, “It’s near Woolwich, by the Thames. You can smell the water from the offices. From the left side, you can almost see Tower Bridge. It is tall and grey – the windows look like slabs of mirrors, cut into rows. Over the years, they have changed the charms to repel any civilians – before the explosion the building masqueraded as a bank, except without a single customer or pound note. There are two towers, both for observation and study. The left is used by Gale Tessera, the Council astronomer, and the right is for the private use of Quentin Travers. The top floor houses Travers and his assistants, the remaining floors are made up of offices for the underlings. In the very core of the building there is a large conference room where the annual meetings take place—it looks like a peach halved, two semi-circles, joined by a table. The lobby leads off into a massive underground research facility and library, the lengths of which I have not even witnessed. Some speak of it has more of a subterranean world—of course, I am speaking in the present tense. I should say that there _was_ a library—with over three million volumes of literature on the supernatural and the underworld. I suspect most of the books have been reduced to shreds.”  
  
“Who blew it up?”  
  
“There’s an investigation underway.” Giles shakes his head. “Undoubtedly the work of the First, but I suppose it could have been another enemy. Though the area is roped off, there are still charms in place to repel those without clearance. We shouldn’t have any trouble, but we will have to move quickly. Travers kept a safe full of documents in his office– documents that were at the very heart of the Council’s operations. I suspect that one of those documents would be the list of all Potential Slayers alive or dead on earth today. From my experience, he always knew when a new Slayer was born, called or killed. Legend has it that each leader of the Council from the day it was formed has been given this list—some call it magical – which generates the names and locations of all the girls known to potentially –“  
  
“Kick ass?”  
  
He ignores her. “That kind of information is invaluable, especially to the First, but none but Travers’ closest kin would know where he kept it.”  
  
“How do you know where it is?” she asks. “You would’ve fried him up for breakfast if you’d had the chance.”  
  
“It was a different life once,” he answers. “If we can find the safe in the rubble, it should be the first step to locating the Potentials. Some of them may be scared, in hiding.”  
  
“Poor girls,” Buffy whispers, a trickle of empathy skating across her body.   
  
“Yes.” His hands form a protective temple. “I’m relieved you remember them.”  
  
She wants to snap at him, snarl, bite off a word or two. Instead, she turns her head and looks out of the window. Raising her hand, she presses her palm against the cold plastic. The dream rushes back to her, rivering over her flesh, and so she pushes it back, into a compartment she reserves for her little demons. I want to roar, she thinks. I want to be great. Breathing against the window, she draws a letter in the steam, and erases it before anyone can see. “I feel like this is it. This is the last fight.”  
  
Giles breathes out too. “That would be naïve.” His voice is soft. “But hopeful. Very hopeful.”  
  
+  
  
As they stand at the very heart of London, right smack dab in its ventricles and arteries, the blood sky of night rains down on them. The Thames is just off in front of them, and it smells of garbage, sewage, contrary to its serene and glittering surface. Light plays over the water from the skyscrapers and raindrops.  
  
“In the past, they would hold ice skating on the Thames when it froze during the winter,” Giles says, his voice dry. “They’ve stopped it. If someone were to fall, they might lick the ice and contract a terrible disease.”  
  
“Definitely smells that way,” Buffy says, wrinkling her nose. She looks up at Giles. “Do you miss this place?”  
  
“Not hardly,” he says, obviously lying, and rolls up the sleeves of his jacket. “Shall we get started?”  
  
14 Trecangate Crescent lies in piles of rubble, with only a few foundations still standing. Police tape circles the perimeter of the property, yellow as lemons and swaying in the wind from the river. Buffy looks doubtfully at the masses of torn-open books, the shards of wood wizened from exposure to the elements and the bleached white sticks that look suspiciously like bones.  
  
“Gross.”  
  
“This _was_ your idea.”  
  
“Why hasn’t this place been looted yet?” Buffy asks. “By the, uh, chavs?”  
  
Giles looks at her.  
  
“Spike taught me that,” she says proudly. “It means ‘council house and—“  
  
“I know what it refers to, Buffy,” he says. “Naturally, this area has been protected by magical wards to repel civilians.”  
  
“Now you’re speaking Finn.”  
  
He smiles briefly. “Well, there are still items to be salvaged. Eventually, that will be dealt with. For now, let us see if we can locate the safe. If you would like to concentrate your efforts on the south end, I will make my way from the North. We shall meet in the center and see what we have. Be careful not to disturb anything—I’d rather we didn’t advertise our presence to any who might be watching.”  
  
“Will we get magically zapped by Harry Potter?”   
  
“I am serious.”  
  
“I know,” she replies, suitably chastened. Sort of. “I’ll be as safe as houses. Use my tippy-toes. Look with my _eyes_.”  
  
Giles rolls his and sets off without another word to her. Buffy smiles and takes her first step into the ruins. She sees Giles, a wavery figure with a flashlight in his hand. The light bends and bows as he waves it around the rubble. Buffy takes out her own light, flashing it around aimlessly as she tries to decide where to start.  
  
“If I was a safe, where would I be?” she says out-loud. “Out of the rain, drinking wine and snuggled up in bed with a local hottie? I thought so.”   
  
Everything under the sun crunches beneath her booted feet as she walks over the remains of the Watcher’s Council building. Mirrored glass, scorched from smoke. Pieces of leather furniture. Blackened shards of wine and beer bottles. Pots and pans, untouched by the devastation. She sees family photographs, and dirty photographs. Human teeth. Chicken bones. An exploded light bulb. Buffy picks her way through, careful and precise, trying to imitate Giles. She wonders if she should put on a British accent.  
  
That is when she hears it. Something. Something faintly, well, buzz-y. As if there is a beehive hidden in the wreckage. Or—a whistle. A whistling kettle. Buffy cocks her head, trying to pinpoint the point of origin. To her left, toward where the center of the building once stood. She thinks about calling to Giles, but knows that her voice would carry and tip off anyone watching.  
  
Not such a bad thing if it really is Harry Potter spying on them, of course. Cute with a capital C. But she’s not anxious to alert any baddies anxious for some action. The noise intensifies as she nears an upturned bookshelf that rests on a scarred, badly broken piece of wood. Maybe the safe has a homing device? A little buzzer or something? Like an alarm clock or a wake-up call. “But why would it be going off for _me_?” she whispers to herself. “I’m not Quentin, ew.” She kneels down by the bookshelf.  
  
It’s not a safe. Nor is it Giles sneakily making tea with his portable kettle. The whistly, buzzing sound is coming from a book. She picks it up, disappointed, and runs her palm down the front. Soft, buttery leather, seemingly untouched by the explosion, with tiny gold script on the right hand corner of the cover. She shines her flashlight directly on the lettering.   
  
“Klappe,” she says. “What the hell does that mean?”  
  
She realizes she has made a mistake as soon as she opens the book. The words seem to skip off the page, skittering like ants down her fingers and into her arms. She drops it, still open onto the ground, but the words persist, and they get faster and faster, coming at her like bullets, or teeth. Buffy backs up, her mouth open but no sound escaping.   
  
The whistling noise gets louder and louder, until it seems as if the whole night is screaming with it and she keeps expecting Giles to run over, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t. Why won’t it STOP  
  
she thinks, and backs up and backs up but she isn’t going anywhere, she is on the street now, pounding pavement, breaths sweet and sure but the jaws of the book are closing in on her, gobbling her up just like that wolf that always scared her in fairytales. I’ll huff and I’ll puff—and it is all the better to EAT you with, my dear, and so she begins to shout because this isn’t happening to her—  
  
and this is just too Acathla for words—  
  
no, no  
  
but it never gentles, never wavers and she has the sensation of Time tugging at her belly button, at the place where she had the cord that connected her to earth, to gut-deep Mother  
  
and then all there is, all there is—  
  
+  
  
One bonebreaking moment she is asleep, the next she is awake. Her eyes open, snap snap snap, and she feels so sick that she turns and vomits pale bile all over the road. Coughing, she wipes her mouth with her fingers, spitting and spitting to relieve the taste in her mouth. Finally, she glances up and around.   
  
Well, she’s not in Kansas anymore, that’s for sure.  
  
Buffy stands, her body thrumming with pain, and sees blood on the road. She realizes it is from her. She must have thrown up in her sleep. She is between buildings, in the daylight, the sun heating the back of her neck. Walking out from the lip between the two structures, she looks out at the street.   
  
Everyone is terribly retro. Strike One. Black tape covers most of the windows. Strike Two. Her, ‘you’re out’ moment happens when she notices that all the cars look charmingly… rustic. Sort of like those vintage car shows her Dad used to go to when she was a kid. Buffy feels herself panic a little, because this is crazy of a kind she hasn’t encountered in a while.   
  
“Plan?” she asks herself. “Find a pay phone. Call Giles.”  
  
Pay phone. Good plan. She walks out onto the street, feeling conspicuous in her leather bomber jacket and black tights. Orienting herself, she turns back to look and see where the river is.   
  
“Oh.”   
  
Towering in front of her is the Watcher’s Council Building, _not_ scattered into tiny little toddler-sized pieces, but rather, fully grown up and – THERE- not blown to shreds like its supposed to be. She starts to panic a bit more, because well, what WAS that book that it made her puke blood and get her stuck in Pleasantville with the weird suited up ladies, and WHY do they look so familiar, as if she’s seen pictures of them, pictures in black and white—  
  
or—  
  
Buffy walks toward a little boy who is selling newspapers on the sidewalk. Her mouth is numb, so are her hands. The boy has blue eyes, blue like storms. He looks at her warily, and she knows that look. She knows it means she doesn’t belong. Best not to start fitting in now. Carpe diem, as she once told Willow. Seize the fish or the day, or whatever moment happens to be right in front of you. She grabs a paper from him and examines it until she finds what she is looking for.  
  
No surprise, no, but she realizes she won’t be finding any pay phones any time soon. Giles is going to be so _mad_ at her.   
  
The letters and numbers are like a siren, fiercely accusing, and she reads them aloud, “March 3rd, 1942.”


	2. Chapter 2

Not quite breathing, not quite feeling. She has had this dream before. Caught in an unknown country, stuck in a situation that she cannot fight her way out of. Out of _place_. As Buffy stands there on the sidewalk, holding the newspaper with its impossible date, the world spins down on her and she remembers that dream, that nightmarish sleep.   
  
Wherever she is in the dream, it reeks of wolves. Trees crowd around her, taller than cornstalks; their pine needles as big as her hands. There is snow in the air, about to fall. She can feel it hovering in the clouds, thickening her breaths and dusting her arms with white. She is running, but not toward anything like usual, no, she is running _away_. Her legs are not bare, but her breasts are and if she looks down, she can see her heart pulsing underneath that thin place between them. Her nipples are little bits of frost. She is panicking, smelling animal and smelling futility.   
  
The dream is terrible in the way that only certain things are. The word rape. The smell of burnt pumpkin pies. An empty statue, gaping maw. Purple velvet. All those things, they skitter together like insects to form the dream, and yet she always wakes up – she always does.  
  
But, even if this doesn’t have quite _that_ kind of happy ending – hot chocolate, slippers, and some sort of morning soap opera – it is fixable. All she needs is a way to contact Giles. Interstellar mail, perhaps? Two plastic cups and infinity string?   
  
“Are you quite all right?”  
  
It takes her a moment. She stares at the kid. “Fine.”  
  
“You’re from America,” he says instantly. The tone of his voice suggests that is the likely reason for her behaviour. “Have you just arrived in London?”  
  
“You could say that,” Buffy mumbles, irritated at this entire situation.  
  
Turning slightly on her heel, she looks around. 14 Trecangate Crescent reflects the Thames from the mirrored windows that line the sides of the building. Its roof plates gleam like slabs of meat in the sunshine. She smells sulphur – gunpowder – and yet the smell of sewage and garbage is gone from the water. The two towers—how very Lord in the Rings, she thinks – are as Giles described. They look like top hats constructed from stone and glass. In the left one, she can see the wink of glass – probably a telescope, a straight-backed chair, and an enormous map covering one wall. The other tower is obscured by sunlight. A discreet sign above the dark red door reads, “Watch & Sons Ltd.”  
  
“Good one, Quentin,” she mutters to herself. The kid is still staring at her as he sells his papers. She can feel those storm eyes trained on her body. Not in an ew, gross way. Just… curious. As if he sees her not as a human being, but actually as a specimen in a zoo, and he’s wondering what trick she’ll perform next. Glancing around, she takes in the bustling residential area that surrounds the Watcher’s Council building. Woolwich, she remembers, and feels a pang for Giles. The name rolled off his tongue like silk. Brownstones crowd together along the streets, their windows blackened by thick stripes of tape. Here and there, she can see evidence of bomb blasts. Knocked-out glass, caved in roofs, rubble spilling onto the sidewalk like intestines from a belly.   
  
A woman passes Buffy, politely nods her head, and continues on. But not before giving her an up-and-down look that seems to scream, “What the hell is she wearing?” That, or she’s just been checked out by her first 1940s lesbian. Willow would be proud. Along the opposite side of the street, wounded soldiers walk together in packs, like animals, smelling of sawdust and wearing their bandages like shame. Supply trucks roar down the road, billowing soot and dust. Somewhere, a bell tolls the hour, and someone, somewhere is singing an aria with their window open.   
  
“War, war, war,” she murmurs to herself, trying to recall long-ago history classes with boring teachers and books that coughed out dust when opened. But all she can remember is vintage Seinfeld and the question, “War, what is it good for?” She shrugs. War has been a daily pastime since she was sixteen and stupid. It isn’t new territory. Being sent back in Time, however, that sort of is. She tries to remember the last time it might have happened, and can’t.  
  
Looking up, she sees the sky, faintly pink on the horizon, with thunderheads rolling in from the east.   
  
Action-time. Plan A: walk into the building, find the book, home safe and sound without broken nails or mussed hair. Plan B: well, panic, but she’s not going to get to Plan B.   
  
“Bye,” she says to the kid.  
  
“Wait!” he calls. “The paper.”  
  
“Oh. My bad.” She turns to hand it back to him. It has left ink on her hands. Tangible—she is _here_. A rush of fear takes her by surprise and she swallows, nodding to him. “Thanks. I mean, sorry.”  
  
“What’s your name?” again, he stops her.  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Mine’s Ram,” he says, ignoring her question. “I love America. I’d like to move there someday.”  
  
She recognizes the look in his eyes and inwardly groans. A _fangirl_. Ugh. “Stick to your own country,” she advises. “You have nice black cabs. With leg room.”   
  
He cocks his head. “Do you have a place to stay?”  
  
“Is this a come-on?”  
  
“Pardon?”  
  
“Nothing,” she says, amused. Which is a slight miracle, considering the crap day she’s having. “What did you have in mind?”  
  
“If you need a place to stay, my sister has a flat near here. Tis not much, but it’s clean, with a fireplace and a cooker. That is, if you need a place. Some people do these days.”  
  
“Right. War. Big war,” she answers, aware she is rambling, but needing time to think. It’s not as if she’s fighting off the offers with a stick. It might be useful to have a bed - not to mention fresh java - if she’s going to formulate a plan to get the hell out of prehistoric Dodge. “Sure—I mean, that would be nice. Thanks… Ram. I’m Buffy.”  
  
She extends her hand. He takes it. His palm is cool, also ink-stained. That first touch startles her. The first touch from another Time. It feels the same. Human flesh, human bones. Fingers, toes. It never changes. “Where are we headed?”  
  
He laughs. It sounds throaty, surprisingly so for a kid who looks to be on the right side of ten. “We’re not going anywhere at the moment, Buffy. I have to sell my papers.” He motions to the bundle at his feet. “Once these are gone, we can go. Sit down, if you’d like. Relax and enjoy the sunshine. Tis apt to rain soon.”  
  
“Looks like it,” Buffy says woodenly. Plopping herself down on the curb, she rests her elbows on her knees, feeling the softness of her tights and the boniness of her legs. Tilting her chin down, she begins to do what she did on the plane, in reverse. Opening each cupboard of her mind, she slowly draws out the memories of days past, leaving the moths behind as she looks for clues. Should she have seen this coming? Were there indications that some super-villain was about to pull a Gabaldon and send her back in Time? Was Jamie Fraser going to ride out on his steed and take her to his Scottish stronghold?   
  
“Please say yes,” she whispers.   
  
But no one comes. So she closes her eyes, and she remembers. A series of memories flash along her eyelids, and she scans them like a computer might, searching for answers. It is the only thing she can _do_ and her body aches in protest.  
  
((Spike, trying to kiss her. A few weeks ago. The reek of cigarettes on his mouth and body. Backing away, still feeling the dry scrape of the bath mat against her knees, the probe on his fingers against naked skin. Not ready to trust, and her instincts fired.  
  
The First. _I have big plans for you._  
  
Dawn, before she left for the airport. Clingy, whiny, but a real edge to her voice, a real warning. _Don’t go_ and it blared, but Buffy didn’t listen. Little sisters, how they do go on.  
  
Her Mom’s old chequebook, discovered in a kitchen drawer that hadn’t been cleaned in months. Tracing the name with her thumb. Joyce Summers. Joyce Joyce Joyce until the letters didn’t mean much except tools for pronunciation. Willow walking through, toward the dining room, singing a Tori Amos tune, so soft, so sweet, _Maybe its time, to wave goodbye now…_ and Buffy had thought, _Fuck you_ , even though Willow didn’t know, couldn’t know.   
  
Xander, fixing the bathroom sink, his lower body obscured by the counter. Soaked shirt, smelling of vinegar and tree leaves. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, talking to him. He said, _Sometimes I worry you won’t be here for long_ and she said, _Trying to get rid of me already_ but he didn’t joke, said, _It’s just a feeling I have_.  
  
The First, fitting into the body of Angelus like a snakeskin. _You were a lousy lay. No wonder he left._  
  
Calling Riley not too long ago. Stirrings of the underworld. He said for her to be careful. She said she always was. He said, _you NEVER are_ and she laughed, asked after his wife. _She’s good_. His voice was wistful and unspoken words hung between them, but she was on a high wire and did not cross to retrieve them. No good could come from that kind of rescue. He said, _the world needs you_ and she responded, _so do I_.  
  
Months and months ago, when she was just clawing from the avalanche of Heaven, a meeting with Angel. _Don’t go_ except it was her this time. He didn’t listen. Oh, ex-girlfriends, how they do go on.))  
  
Buffy lifts her head, feeling nauseated again, her belly boiling up and up and up. “Be right back,” she says to Ram, and runs toward 14 Trecangate, throwing up between it and number 13. More blood this time, as red as the roof plates above her head. She coughs, wondering what the ‘travel’ did to her insides, the physics of it. Is her body still struggling to catch up? Are her guts going to end up on the ground? Leaning her forehead against cool brick, she suddenly realizes that someone is standing over her. Ram.  
  
“Jet lag,” she says, by way of explanation.  
  
He looks confused. “Pardon me?”  
  
“Ummm, boat lag?”   
  
“What are you leaning against?”  
  
“The- the building,” she says, re-considering the slumber party invitation.  
  
“What building? There isn’t a building here, Buffy.”  
  
“But—“ she stops, wondering if the charms to repel civvies have made the structure invisible. “I thought there was. My total mistake. Must be the—boat lag. Is that what you guys call it?”  
  
“14 Trecangate is sacred ground. No one is allowed to build here.” He assesses her reaction. “But you can see it,” he finally remarks, looking satisfied. “I thought so. My sister is most definitely going to want to meet you.” Side-stepping her vomit without batting an eyelash, Ram takes her hand and helps her to stand. “Her name is Hannah.”  
  
“That bitch from Hemery--?” Buffy stops, remembers where she is. “Long story. Stole a boy, pulled my hair – anyway.”   
  
Ram blinks, and lifts a hand to his forehead. His hair is the color of toast, and hangs raggedly over his eyes. “Her name is Hannah Tyas.”  
  
“Is she famous?” Buffy asks, for wont of anything better to say. She knows that name. How? Something flickers at the edge of her mind, but quickly vanishes. A paper she might have seen-- ? A history book?   
  
“Among certain circles,” he replies, still holding onto her hand. He is stronger than he looks. “Come along, Buffy. The papers can wait. I don’t think you can.”  
  
And that is when the sky cracks, and the first drops of cold rain land on Buffy’s lashes. They feel devastatingly like tears, but she doesn’t give in and add her own salt water. Instead, she follows Ram onward, into the storm.


	3. Chapter 3

Fall.  
  
It is, for some reason, the only word on her mind. She wants to fall. If she fell, she might crack her head open on the damp earth and all the memories would spill out, like a dark red river. Enough, she sometimes thinks. Enough remembering and enough of the _years_ that just keep stacking themselves, one on top of the other. Enough of _this_.   
  
It surprises her though, the word playing on a loop through her mind. She hasn’t thought of it since after Heaven, when she made it her business to fall as often as possible. Crashing against Spike was a way to obliterate the memories; they made a house fall down, he made her fall down. Back then, she would imagine each memory as a bloody handkerchief, dotting her path toward madness. She baited Willow, she imagined Dawn as a ghost and she treated Xander like a flower pressed in a book, irrelevant. But now—she has a _plan_ , a plan of ACTION, no less, and whoever has done this to her just has NO idea who they’re messing with.  
  
Well, who they _will_ be messing with. Just as soon as she gets back. But, geez, couldn’t the Powers lighten up a bit? As if she didn’t already have the world on her back, now she’s stuck in the equivalent of a historical romance novel, except her hero is a 10-year-old kid with a celebrity sister.   
  
Buffy looks down at him, feels his hand still holding hers. “Where does your sister live?”  
  
“Southwark,” he says. “Tis not far. Just a small jaunt along the river and we’ll be there. Tell me something, a story– how was your journey?”  
  
“A story?”  
  
“I like stories.”  
  
“My trip—“ Buffy pauses and lets the remembrances rush on, like a train hurtling toward them. She decides to tell the truth, knowing that he will take it as fiction. “Well, it was fast, and then slow sometimes. When I first—got on the boat, I opened my eyes and saw a unicorn farm.”  
  
“How did you know what it was?”   
  
“There were unicorns, duh,” she says, lightly mocking. “Someone was training them. I didn’t know where I was, though. Maybe in a –“ flash of inspiration, “parallel world. Anyway, there was blood on the unicorn’s legs. Their horns were gold and shining – and the ground was muddy, smelled of salt. I moved away and saw a sea of crashed airplanes. That’s all it was. Water, and there were wings, tails and passengers floating on little rafts made from engines and meal trays,” she pauses. “Freaky. Next came the mermaids—they were, umm… tanning. Right. Without lotion, which is seriously dangerous.” She doesn’t mention what else she saw. Female captives, chained to the mermaids, who were fucking them with fingers and tongues and the women, they were openly orgasming, moaning, their bodies slicked with sweat. She also doesn’t mention how the scene made her feel. Too many Faith-shaped desires there. So she continues, “I saw cathedrals—“  
  
“And this was all on the ocean?”  
  
“Exactly.” An ocean of Time. “There were tons of churches. Which, my feeling is—religion equals baggage to the extreme, so I moved on. There was a monster feeding off of a baby, an autopsy table, Glory… the water turned into the Nile, and then the world got dark and it was _too_ dark— like the stars had been swallowed.” Buffy breathes out, unwilling to tell him what happened next. So, she whispers, “Scary boat ride.”  
  
“Good story,” Ram says, looking pleased. She thinks that there must not be anyone to read him to sleep at night. “I'm not sure I understand some of it, but I liked the unicorns. Hannah loves them. She always says that if we were all unicorns, there wouldn’t be any war because they’re good creatures. She says they don’t have any bad bones.”  
  
“That’s why they’re not real.”  
  
They walk down winding, seemingly never-ending streets, jostled by women with umbrellas, nurses carrying books and armloads of other supplies, wounded soldiers, and children juggling their school things. Rain continues to pelt down, cold and unrelenting. She is soaked through to naked skin, and remembers a quote she heard once about 1940s London. Something about the darkest hour anyone had ever lived. The smell of sulphur has grown more pronounced, and Buffy wrinkles her nose, once again noticing the damaged buildings, listing to their sides under the weight of so much destruction. The Thames is incandescent in the rain – thousands upon thousands of little pinpricks on its surface.   
  
And there’s one other thing.   
  
She looks around. “There aren’t any fat people here.”  
  
Ram shrugs. “Rationing. Has it not taken effect in America, then?”  
  
“Ummm,” she hesitates. Has it? _Had_ it? Ms. Atkinson’s history class eludes her, laughing all the way. “I—I’ve been traveling for a while. It might’ve.”   
  
“Right,” Ram nods, and turns down a side street. Darkened and slightly sheltered from the rain by the overhanging roofs. Buffy breathes a bit and he speaks again, “What do you do in America?”  
  
“I—“ she is stumped, but something flickers, from long ago. “I run an office supply warehouse. In Vegas. With my friend—Giles. He orders, I ship.”  
  
He stares up at her. “You don’t want to tell me. I understand.”  
  
She opens her mouth and swiftly closes it again. He is way too smart. A man steps out of a café back door and pours water all over the alley. It reeks of brine. Down the narrow street, a woman walks quickly, dressed in a severely cut suit, the straight skirt inhibiting each step she takes. Her lips are red and plump. Buffy watches her, watches this creature from another time, and wonders if a stake might be necessary. The sun HAS gone in, after all. But still, probably just Slayer-sense-overdrive. The woman passes by without growling or pouncing, smelling of lilies and salt. Buffy relaxes her own body slightly, and Ram looks up at her again.  
  
“You were suspicious of that lady.”  
  
“Nuh uh,” Buffy responds, and drops his hand. Obviously, bodily rhythms are his specialty. Seeking to distract him; “Why aren’t you in school instead of free-lancing on the side of the road?”  
  
“We don’t have enough money, with Dad gone.” His face is impassive. “If Mum is to eat, I must work.”  
  
“What about Hannah?”  
  
“She has her own troubles.”  
  
“Nothing’s more important than family.”  
  
“Sometimes there are things.”   
  
She opts for silent mode, unwilling to agree out-loud. Such a depressingly accurate thing for a kid to say.   
  
“Almost there now,” Ram says.  
  
She steps around a pile of wet garbage, and as they pass alongside an apartment building, one green leaf floats through the rain and drifts past her cheek. There must be a roof top garden up there, and Buffy glances sky-ward, filling herself with rain. It washes away the strong reek of gun waste and she suddenly wishes for a very Giles-y cup of tea, hot and sure.  
  
Ram leads her down a sideway, between a café and a fruit and vegetable shop. Boards are nailed over the windows, leaving only the smells of rot and cat urine. Buffy begins, oddly, to feel calmer amidst all this evidence of a tangible earth. The plan: clearly, Hannah is some sort of supernatural wunderkind – what sort remains to be seen – but since Ram can see the Council building, they must have some connection to her little monster planet. So, right, plan. Enlist the help of the sister, break into 14 Trecangate, find the book, let the creepy-crawlies come, and instruct Giles to make her a strong cup of English Breakfast ASAP. Easy enough. Unless—she feels the electricity of uneasiness. Unless—what would being from the future make her? A relic? Someone to be dissected and probed? Would they want to plumb her body for medical miracles? So. New plan: she’s on her own.  
  
“Here we are,” Ram says, and points.  
  
Constructed carefully from red brick, the building is at least 10 stories high and weathered with age. Rain streaks the glassed windows and a plague to the left of the door, unadorned but for brass lettering, reads “157”. Ever mindful of becoming lost, Buffy glances around until she finds the street name. Weeping Willow Way. Points for alliteration. She breathes out. “Anyone home?”  
  
Ram nods. “They hardly venture out during daytime.”  
  
“They?”  
  
“Hannah and her flatmate – Sabina. She’s—“ he hesitates, “interesting. You’ll like her.”  
  
 _No, I won’t_ , she immediately recognizes, but stays mute-girl for the moment. “Tell me why you want me to meet them.”  
  
“They’ll tell you. They live in flat 2-9. Ring the bell and let them know that I sent you.”  
  
“Excuse much? You’re not coming?”  
  
He smiles merrily. “I must be getting back to my papers.” He waves as he begins to walk away. “I know I’ll see you again, Buffy. We can talk about America.”  
  
“Pure joy,” she says, pointing to her face. “Right here.”  
  
He laughs and continues on, breaking into a trot as he rounds the corner and out of sight. She shrugs, wondering if she should even meet the sister. Then again, having someone familiar with all things demonic might be an asset. Ascending the steps, she opens the heavy front door and looks around for a buzzer. Oh, right. More steps – toward the second floor. Her boots make a clanging noise with each movement. The hall stretching toward the apartment is long and flattened by use, the carpet a dull red color, like rust in water.  
  
Buffy knocks on the door of 2-9 and a few seconds later, someone answers, “Who’s there?” The voice is husky, mellowed at the edges. “Who’s there?” again.  
  
“Ram sent me.” A pause, and she considers the silence on the other end of the door. A waiting silence. “I can see the building—14 Trecangate.”  
  
The door opens. Immediately she knows: this is Ram's sister. The eyes are the same storm color and the bone structure is delicate, defined. Hannah’s hair hangs down her back in a thick brown sheet, clipped at the sides with pearls and ending at her waist. She is tall, and thin, like the branch of a tree. There is a choker at her throat and she wears a straight skirt, nipped at the knees, with a military-style blouse outlining the slight curves of her teacup breasts. Buffy stares at her, wondering what this slice of homecoming-queen-pie could _possibly_ have to do with anything dangerous.  
  
“Ram sent you?” Hannah asks. “Where is he?”  
  
“Walked me here. Not as interested in staying.”   
  
“Who is it, Hannah?” The speaker of this question appears soon after, the words making it into the hallway just before she does. Sabina. Her neck is slender, long, and she has hair the color of fleece. White as a new snow. Her eyes are so purple that they are almost black and she gazes at Buffy with undisguised suspicion. Every line of her too-thin body is poised for a fight. “Who are you?”  
  
“Buffy. Ram sent me.”  
  
“Is this the new one?” Sabina asks Hannah.  
  
“I don’t know—Whistler never said—“  
  
“You _know_ Whistler?” Buffy breaks in, too excited to be circumspect. “How do you—“  
  
“Shush-- keep your voice down. You had better come in,” Hannah says, reaching out but falling short of a touch. Opening the door wider, she steps aside so that Buffy can walk through, which she does. Purposeful and buzzing with knowledge. Whistler. What kind of a mind-bend is _this_? For the first time, she wonders if this is all some sort of elaborate dream. Maybe she fell and split her head open. Maybe the dark red river is flowing and maybe paramedics are bent over her body, trying to reconnect her bones and play cross-stitch with her veins. But then she thinks – No. She isn’t that crazy yet, to believe this is a nightmare or a coma. Hannah speaks again. “Why didn’t Whistler give you our address?”  
  
“Who are you?” Buffy asks instead of answering. She stands in their front hallway, which smells of tears.   
  
“Who are _you_?” Sabina counters.   
  
“Stop pestering the poor girl,” Hannah says, drawing Buffy down the hall, toward the living area. Sabina follows, looking mutinous. “Come in, come in. You must be so tired from your journey. Could I make you some –“  
  
"Shouldn't you KNOW who we are--"   
  
The crash and splinter of glass. Buffy feels disoriented, but looks up at the breaking window, sees the vampire, the steaming cloak, the fanged face. Sabina's words stutter to a halt. Both women gasp, move slightly. Buffy barely breathes. Whipping a stake from her boot, she dusts Bitey in two seconds flat.   
  
“As you were saying,” she responds, realizing she has blown her cover slightly, but hoping they will be like regular people and not know what they just witnessed.   
  
Hannah’s mouth is open. “Your training must have been superb.”  
  
“Huh?”  
  
“For a Potential,” Sabina says. “That was – for a Potential, that was very… smooth. Vamps have tried to break in that way a few times this month and we’ve never gotten there that quickly." She sees Buffy's confusion. "You _are_ a Potential? What else would you be doing here?”  
  
Buffy nods. “What else is the right question.”  
  
Hannah laughs. “You’re quite amusing, for an American. I’m sorry that Whistler didn’t let us know you were coming. Thankfully we got extra rations this week. Shall I cook us some dinner? We can fill you in on all the details-- the work you'll be doing."  
  
“Goodie.” Sabina’s voice is dry, low.   
  
“Ok,” Buffy says carefully. Work? Like, homework? She watches them both, not really seeing them, as she remembers the bit of the tale that she didn’t tell Ram. She can't tell it to anyone- it's too rough, too hard, too disgustingly accurate. Now that the memories are flowing back, she recognizes one crucial thing. After the stars vanished and the world became as dark as the bottom of a well, she saw her Mother, lying on the couch, she saw Angel sucked into Acathla’s stomach, she saw Spike raping her on the bathroom floor – the blood from her vagina was black – she saw Dawn sliced into two pieces on Glory’s metal tower. All of those memories, they gathered to form one body, one body, closed her eyes, whispered of foreversleep, terrible, intimate.   
  
She wasn’t pulled out of her Time.   
  
She was pushed.


	4. Chapter 4

Buffy concentrates on her own breathing. Hannah is making soup and the smell of potatoes fills the air, smoky and sweet. The rhythmic sound of the knife, _thwack, thwack_ , as it slices vegetables. Hannah moves like she knows how to move, gamine and boyish, a carrot between her lips like a cigarette. Her pillowy lips shine like tears in the waning rainy afternoon. A blanket is tacked up to cover the broken window, but slats of bone-light still illume Hannah’s face when wind stirs the cotton. Sabina has gone to get fish and chips, and outside, a plane whines through the sky.  
  
Steam rises from the pots on the stove, like smoke from a pipe.  
  
One, two. One breath, two breaths, maybe three. She places one hand over her breast, her left breast, in order to measure the beats of her heart. If it isn’t throbbing at least she’ll know that she’s dead and this is just some bizarro version of Slayer Hell. But it is. A little quick and stattaco, but its still there, the intimate pump of blood. So. She was pushed out of her own dimension so fast it would be enough to give a girl a complex – if she was that kind of girl. Important though: who did it? Was it the First? Was it Willow, pissing all over her territory for the final time? Was it Glory? But why, why? And now, these girls. So, they know vampires. They know Potentials. All signs are pointing to Slayerville, but she’s not sure exactly what route to take.  
  
She looks around for clues. She is sitting in the living room, which is small and would be bare, if not for the haphazard bookcases and shabby brocade couches. Volume after volume of literature—but Buffy isn’t close enough to see the titles. There are candles, waxy and fat, and photos framed on the walls, their edges veined and scabbing with age. A blue-tiled fireplace is built into the rear wall, to the left of her, and it smells of ashes and pussy, a combination that reminds her of Faith. Wrong, wrong, wrong, but she can’t help but associate. A deep plushy chair rests in front of the fireplace, and a bowl of water and flowers sits on top of one shelf. Buffy stares at the floating petals and in one sharp moment wonders if someone has succeeded, finally, in separating her from Dawn. She remembers again – the black blood jet, the terribleness of the whisper as she was cut from the earth like an aborted fetus.  
  
“Are you all right?” Hannah asks from the kitchen, the carrot still between her lips. “You’ve gone quite ashy suddenly. Shall I make you some tea?”  
  
Buffy breathes again, one two three four. Her hair is still wet from the rain, and it drip drops a little onto her neck. “Sure, thanks.” And she grows tired of the dark, asks if she can light a fire. The motion of lifting wood, of feeling the fullness in her arms, it soothes. The thick matches catch easily, and she lifts her hands up, stealing warmth. She watches Hannah again, thinking of all the questions she would like to ask. Why is Whistler here? Which one of you slays and which one of you tags along? Why do you think I’m a Potential? Are you Keira Knightley’s time traveling twin? But she settles down, accepting the mug of hot tea and sipping deep.  
  
“Who _are_ you?”  
  
Hannah looks at her pityingly. “Whistler really told you nothing.”  
  
“Not a lot, no,” she answers, annoyed. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing here.”  
  
“I don’t know why I should be surprised – Whistler—“  
  
  
“Has pubic hair growing out of his ears,” Sabina says, from the hallway. She appears a second later, dewy wet with rain, her hair tucked behind her ears and two grease-stained bags in her hands. “I have sustenance.”  
  
Soon, they are eating in front of the fire. Thick, crunchy-skinned cod, fragrant soup, vinegary fries. At first, Buffy stares at the food, wondering if it will attack. And then, she eats. She eats until her stomach hurts. Her skinny little stomach. She watches it bulge out as she burps softly beneath her breath.  
  
“Protein,” she says, satisfied and spent, her skin flushed pink. “So,” she takes a leap and turns to Sabina, “are you the Slayer?”  
  
Sabina laughs at the question, showing sharp white teeth. “Hannah is stronger than she looks.”  
  
“Oh.” Buffy feels stupid. “But one of you IS the Slayer?”  
  
“Bloody Whistler,” Hannah looks irritated. “Did he sign you up for this without even a debrief? Goodness—well, as a Potential, I’m sure you’ve been told what I do, what we all do here?”  
  
“Nuh uh,” Buffy says, playing dumb. The less she appears to know, the better.  
  
Sabina blows on her soup. “You’d think he would have been arsed to at least—“  
  
“He’s busy,” Hannah says, pacifying. “Well -- I know I look like a ten-year-old boy. But it’s all muscle. I’m the Slayer—and Sabina is a Potential, the next, in fact. She will be called if I—well. What did Whistler tell you?”  
  
“Well,” Buffy feels around for inspiration. Metaphorically speaking. “He said that—big things were coming up and that I should be ready for them. He said that’s what tests us. The stuff. The big stuff. Long story short, he basically said I’d be working – training, slaying, the usual fun. What exactly do you guys do?”  
  
Sabina snorts, like a horse, with a little puff of white breath. “Everything.”  
  
Hannah takes another bite of fish. There is grease shining her fingertips. “It’s complicated. We work indirectly for the Council of course – they’re the Shadow men in the background, ordering our movements, paying us our stipends and generally organizing the missions. They operate out of the building that you could see on Trecangate Crescent. That’s how Ram knew to bring you to me. The building is charmed extensively to prevent civilians from seeing – too many strange comings and goings. They may be pompous fools, but our work is well oiled and useful. We wouldn’t want to be—“  
  
“Dead weight,” Sabina puts in.  
  
Hannah throws her an annoyed glance. “Directly, we report to Imogen Ballard—the operating Manager of our sector of the Resistance—they’ve nicknamed it the Monster Watch and its strictly black ops – nothing government about it, and we’d be strung up if they found out. It isn’t about demons anymore, or vampires—not completely, at least. There is so much more evil in the human soul than anyone could have ever guessed.” Her voice goes soft, scratchy. “More than I could have imagined.”  
  
“Don’t you worry about someone hearing all of this?” Buffy asks. “Your walls are like paper.”  
  
“Oh, we have charms set up for secret-keeping.”  
  
“I knew this would turn into a Harry Potter crossover.”  
  
“Who is that?”  
  
“A wizard. Slightly yummy but also slightly jail-bait.” Buffy pauses. “What kind of missions do you go on?”  
  
Hannah gives her an odd look. “Anyhow, as Sabina said—every kind. I train Potential Slayers as best I can, and sometimes there are simple tasks, like burning up a nest or patrolling—you know. But often there are special assignments. They trust us to do things that civilians would not be able to do. Of course everyone must be equipped at weaponry, but we’re able to handle explosives, swords, machinery. You’ll be trained in all of that.”  
  
“How many Potentials are there?” Buffy asks, wondering if they have direct descendants. Does it pass on, like a gene?  
  
A look darts between the two girls, and she feels a prickle of awareness. A lie is about to materialize in the air, electric and bitter.  
  
Sabina speaks, gnawing on her lower lip until it blossoms with a small drop of blood. “You’re the first.”  
  
_You’re a terrible liar_ , Buffy thinks, but doesn’t respond for a moment. “When do I start?”  
  
“Tomorrow,” Hannah says. “We’ll take you on a tour of headquarters. You can meet the rest of the Monster Watch.”  
  
“Its bigger than the two of you?”  
  
“Yes,” Sabina says, her tone suggesting she is speaking to a stupid child. “A few Watchers, a couple of contract demon hunters, and one volunteer specialist. Everyone is extremely capable.” There is something regal and Slavic about her voice, and Buffy suddenly wonders where she hails from – or where she escaped from. “You will have to try hard to fit in and not get in anyone’s way.”  
  
“And then what? Do I get a gold star?”  
  
Hannah snorts a bit. She puts down her plate and licks her fingers clean, one by one. “You’ll be sleeping on the couch, for now. I’ll clean up the spare bedroom for you tomorrow. We should have an early night. Any questions? I do hope we’ve welcomed you properly—we’re not, well, we’re not used to this, you see. Sabina and I—we’ve been a fussy little married couple for far too long.”  
  
“Do I get a tour of the Council building too?”  
  
Sabina shakes her head. “God, no. We don’t bother them and they don’t bother us. We would never dream of entering their sacred little spot. No Slayer is allowed within the hallowed walls.”  
  
“What do you mean?” Buffy asks, her stomach boiling up into her throat. “Even if I asked nicely?”  
  
“Not even if you stripped naked and covered yourself with sugar,” Sabina says.  
  
Hannah begins to gather up the plates. “No invitations and no requests. Its passworded anyhow—there’s so much special clearance that we wouldn’t be able to get in even if we should wish to. Why should you want to see it so badly?”  
  
“I don’t,” Buffy looks down, and wishes she had a battle ax. It would split the door at 14 Trecangate in two, like an apple. Maybe a troll god’s mallet. Her voice is quiet, a careful disguise. “I was just curious.”  
  
++  
  
As she steps outside, the only light that shines is from the stars. Above her, they burn. Each window is blacked out, criss-crossed with tarp and tape. She breathes in deeply, expects to feel – poetically, the dust of the past. Instead, the air is fresh with fallen rain and droning with insects. Through the crowded buildings, she can see a glint that she assumes is the river. Turning in that direction, Buffy begins to walk, and then to run, intent on remembering that not even a password can stop her – she doesn’t need an ax, or a mallet. She is the Slayer. She is the Slayer.


	5. Chapter 5

As her run slows to a walk, and her pumping breaths stride on, she stops with the mantra I am the Slayer, I am the Slayer, I am the Slayer because it is beginning to make her feel a little crazy, and that is the last thing that she needs. But still, the world seems tilted upside-down, and if she looks up, she thinks the sky is an ocean, and the stars are foam on the waves, and the planes are little ships, with bombs for brains.

She is the Slayer, or she is not-the-Slayer, because in this part of Time, she doesn’t even exist yet. Oh, where is Giles? She would murder for a cup of tea and a reassuring encyclopedia.

Really, though. Cold panic isn’t of the necessary. All she needs to do is get back to 14 Trecangate, because the darkness is such a nice cover, and do what she couldn’t do in the sunshine. Knock politely on the door, break down the door, whatever, find Quentin’s office, kill him if at all possible, and get her hands on the book. Easy-peasy-lemon-squeezy, or whatever it is Spike says when he’s had to much to drink and starts regressing back to his days as an upper-class Englishman.

The word ‘Spike’, filters through, and Buffy remembers a dream she had, five or so nights ago. She doesn’t want to remember it, but like most things in life, it comes barreling like a train, unwilling to let her forget. There was a canyon, with fire in it, and her and Spike lay alongside, staring up at the sky. There were no stars, no sunlight, no moon made of green cheese. He was saying words to her, words she didn’t recognize, riparian, chiaroscuro, peregrination, which freaked her out because she knew enough to know that words she didn’t know shouldn’t be popping up in dreams. But pop they did, like champagne corks. The fire got hotter, his voice got softer, and she turned to him, cutting his head off with an axe.

“Stop talking,” was all she said.

Pushing the remains of the dream from her mind, she looks at the ruined buildings on either side of her. No lights burn in any of the windows and most of those are broken anyway, reflecting the moon in their shards. She is the only person on the street. Except—she hears voices to her left and rounds a corner near a little restaurant that advertises its ration-free eating. There is a group of three women standing in the shadows, dressed in pants and tops, their willowy figures surrounded by the faint glow of cigarette smoke. One has black hair caught back in a ponytail and she is whispering, “It’s when they got the water mains, I know it.”

Another, who has a jade choker at her throat, nods. “But she wasn’t in there, Blue, and there’s no use thinking she was.”

The third says nothing for a moment, blows out smoke impatiently. “She was competition.”

‘Blue’ ignores that. “I’m not worried. She just talked about the underground. Said it was the place to hide.”

“We don’t get business if we hide,” the third one says, and then spots Buffy. “Speaking of.”

Buffy blushes but she’s lost, so probably best to swallow whatever pride is left. She waves half-heartedly. “Hi.”

The girl with the jade choker takes a look and smiles. Her voice is breathy. “My God. It’s just like Sappho said—‘in the spring twilight, the full moon is shining, girls take their places, as though ‘round an altar.’ She’s splendid, ain’t she?”

“Who? The poet or the girl?”

“I’m still here,” Buffy says, uncertain of the situation. “Just—looking for directions.”

“Or maybe a girl?”

“Huh?”

The girl with the black hair reaches out, takes her hand to shake it. “I’m Blue, our resident poet here is Kate and that there—“ she cocks her head at the one blowing smoke in all of their faces, “is Margot. What’re you looking for? Cause directions—that’s the best one we’ve heard all week. Don’t worry, cricket, we’re quiet. There won’t be any trouble.”

“But—“ she pauses. “Directions are what I want.”

“At this time of the night?” Kate asks. “Which one of us do you like? Cause if it’s me, I promise ya, it’ll be a good one.”

“Ohhhh,” Buffy suddenly understands, and wishes Willow were here to navigate the conversation. “I’m not—I mean, you—with girls?”

“I only do girls,” Blue says. “So does Kate. Margot isn’t as particular.”

“I need money,” Margot finally says. “Bodies are all the same in the dark.”

“Not in the light, though,” Kate smiles.

“I didn’t think there’d be much of a market for—“ Buffy stops herself, really wonders if she wants to go any further. “I mean, good for you.”

“It is good, cricket,” Blue laughs and leans against the window of the clothing shop behind them. “You’d be amazed. You really are lost, then?”

“Yes, couldn’t be more,” Buffy sighs with relief. “Woolwich?”

“Next left, follow the river and stop when you get to the boardwalk on Trecangate Crescent,” Margot says, looking bored. “That’s the beginning of Woolwich. Specific houses, I can’t help you with.”

“S’ok,” Buffy says. “More than ok.” Although she’s in a hurry, she can’t help herself. “What were you guys talking about—what about the water mains?” The words remind her of a map she saw in Giles’ office once, of an older Sunnydale. Here be the churches, here are the witches, here be the water mains, here dwell the warlocks. “Apologies for the eavesdropping.”

Blue bites her lip. “They bombed the tunnels during the last blitz. It got the water mains.”

“People died,” Margot adds succinctly. “Drowned.”

“Maybe one of our friends,” Kate says. “We can’t find her.”

Margot lights another cigarette, carelessly dropping her other one and stamping out the embers. “Our friend Rachel works for the Auxiliary. She sewed a baby together last night.” She blinks. “They don’t care who they hurt.”

Foresight is a terrible thing, and she swallows painfully. “Thanks for the help.”

“Anytime,” Blue replies. The other two nod at her, and she walks away.

+

14 Trecangate is a monolith on dry land. Buffy stares up, up at it, remembering Giles’ words on the plane. It is tall and grey – the windows look like slabs of mirrors, cut into rows. Over the years, they have changed the charms to repel any civilians – before the explosion the building masqueraded as a bank, except without a single customer or pound note. There are two towers, both for observation and study. The left is used by Gale Tessera, the Council astronomer, and the right is for the private use of Quentin Travers. She can see the towers, faintly, with no black tape to mar their glassed windows. Of course, they wouldn’t need it. Why fear bombs when you have a handy charm to repel civvies? Giles’ continues to whisper from the future. The top floor houses Travers and his assistants, the remaining floors are made up of offices for the underlings. In the very core of the building there is a large conference room where the annual meetings take place—it looks like a peach halved, two semi-circles, joined by a table. The lobby leads off into a massive underground research facility and library, the lengths of which I have not even witnessed. Some speak of it has more of a subterranean world—of course, I am speaking in the present tense. I should say that there was a library—with over three million volumes of literature on the supernatural and the underworld. I suspect most of the books have been reduced to shreds. It is as if he is speaking in her ear. She follows the lines of the building, mapping out a route.

It is like that map. Here be the lobby, here is the library door, here be the conference room, here dwells the snake. Aka: Quentin. She traces the air with her finger, painting the building with a line, from point A to point B. But was the right tower his office? Or did he just use it for study and whatever else weird spooky people get up to? Would the safe be there? What if the book was somewhere else? But, no. She was sure it had to be under Travers’ beady gaze. The magic between those pages was too powerful for mere mortals. And if there was anybody with a god complex, it was Quentin.

Wait—

Staring up at the building, Buffy suddenly has a thought. A person-shaped thought. Why is she assuming Quentin Travers is still in charge? Wouldn’t it be someone else? 1942 is a pretty sizable time away from her time. Unless--- is he a time traveler too? Did Hannah and Sabina mention his name? She realizes she’s over-thinking. The night air chills her and she shivers, rubbing her arms.

Walking up to the door, she presses her palm against the wood. A hum, like bees. Buffy wonders about windows being open or perhaps a convenient sewage tunnel to wander through, and just when she is turning away to look, the door opens. A man steps out from the darkness, lit only by the burning stars in the sky. He is short, thick around the neck, and bullet-eyed. Wearing only a black robe and gold rings on every finger, he looks like a very crazy Hugh Hefner.

“Go.”

Buffy thinks fast. “I need to look--“

“You aren’t wanted here,” he says low, cool. “Go.”

“I just need—“

Snap. His fist lashes out, so completely, so viciously, so suddenly, that she doesn’t have time to react, and it catches her smack in the cheek. Flying through the air, she is only dimly aware of the hot blood on her face, and the night flowing past. Her eyes begin to close and she thinks—drugs, there were drugs in his rings—before everything folds itself up around her and she is flat on the cobblestone, imagining a better ending.

+

A voice.

“You’re ok, just relax.”

Cotton beneath her. Softness. A bed? Great, she is about to be raped. Did the rings have roofies in them? Did they have roofies in 1942? But no, not Hugh Hefner’s voice. She shifts, groans at the sick throb through her head, at the gunmetal taste of blood in her mouth. Opening her eyes gingerly, she blinks, adjusting to the light by her bedside. A candle, flickering. The voice is just beyond, in the darkness. She is in a bedroom, bleeding over the sheets; she can see red droplets on the floor too. A path, like the breadcrumbs left by Hansel and Gretel.

“Wha?”

“Shhhh.”

He steps into the glowing light of the candle-flame and she breathes in sharply. “Oh--- my God, did you get dropped in here too?”

Angel looks confused and wary. He steps forward, presses a sopping cloth to her cheek. “Have we met before?”

Oh. Past Angel. Can of worms, everywhere. She looks up, at the razor cheekbones and the shy smile, not yet seen. He bathes her cheek with the cloth, staring down at her. She realizes, for the first time, that she did not get into the Watcher’s Council building, and she realizes, for the first time, how easily she was repelled. Grief and panic, they cleave into one, like bodies during a fight or a fuck, and she whispers.

“No, you just remind me of somebody I know.”


	6. Chapter 6

Early morning light scissors across the room, white and chalky. Buffy turns over on the couch, burying her face against the pillow. It smells of spilt wine and cigarette smoke, and she wonders if the girls have parties here; wartime parties, filled up with soldiers and anxious women, cheap champagne and those knee-length skirts with the slight ruffle beneath the hem. She has seen pictures of parties like that, skirts like that. Grandma Summers, in black and white, her hair caught up in curls, laughing through thick lipstick. And—it is _that_ , that memory, it stills her, reminds her that just across the ocean, deep in the snow belt of Michigan, Grandma Summers – Elise Summers, is a young girl, partying, drinking beer, not knowing of the life she will have, the daughter, the hole that will develop in her lungs, the tumor in her breast, the traitorous body.  
  
She is still a young girl, in 1942, and Buffy is here, a young girl, in 1942.   
  
The walls of the apartment are papery thin, and she can hear either Sabina or Hannah waking up, the sounds of their yawns like bubbles popping. The door to one of their rooms opens, and shuts, almost soundlessly. Buffy hears footsteps cross the floor of the kitchen, through to the hallway. They are light steps, female and practiced. The front door opens, and shuts, almost soundlessly. She thinks she might be dreaming, but then--  
  
a single drop of blood pearls on the fabric of the pillow, dripping from the cut on her face, and she grimaces, remembering.  
  
“Why were you trying to get into that building?” Angel asked her, as he sat down on the edge of the bed. “Slayers aren’t allowed.”  
  
She frowned painfully. “I’m not a Slayer.” It was hard, in a way, not to own it—not to say the words, _I’m Buffy, the Vampire Slayer, and you are?_ but then, she knew who he was and it was such a thorny path to travel down, and she just.couldn’t. Wouldn’t.   
  
“Not the way I smell it.”  
  
“So, grossed out doesn’t even _begin_ to cover it,” she said, trying to sit up. He stopped her, one palm out, flattened against her collarbone, which was winged, extending to the tip of her shoulder. It made a little bump in her skin, which Dawn referred to as her “speed bump". She was too thin. His hand was so big, it covered the bone completely, and she lay back down, trying to stop her throat from hitching. “Getting up is sort of a necessity here.”  
  
“No.” He held a wet cloth in his hand and pressed it to her cheek. “You’re bleeding everywhere.”  
  
“I’ve already ruined your carpet,” Buffy said. “What else is there?”  
  
“My kitchen floor,” he said dryly. “Why were you trying to get into that building?”  
  
“I’m a Potential. Potentials don’t do anything.”  
  
“I know. I mean—they actually do. But I know the Slayer. You’re not her.”  
  
He was still awkward, she could see that. It almost gentled him. But the memories were too hard and fast, and she wanted to get out of the way of the train. She wasn’t surprised that he knew Hannah, and suddenly wondered if maybe she hadn’t been such an anomaly after all.  
  
“Tragic love story?” she asked, sarcasm present and accounted for.   
  
“Uh,” he blinked. “Hannah’s not exactly fond of—“  
  
“Vampires?”  
  
“That’s not—how did you know?”  
  
“You’re not the only one with a shiny sense of smell.”  
  
He nodded and did not smile. But she could see the ghost of it, hiding. “So why haven’t you staked me?”  
  
“You’re soul-having.” She thought fast. “Hannah told me.”  
  
“Did she?”  
  
Buffy decided that was a rhetorical question. “Where did you find me?”  
  
“On the side of the road.”  
  
“Descriptive.”  
  
“I was out walking.” He seemed defensive, and knowing Angel, he probably was. “A cloud moved past the moon and the light—I saw you. You had black all over your face, and I knew it was blood. You must have knocked on the door. Was he wearing his rings?”  
  
“Who?” she asked.  
  
“Tanek. Ballard’s guard. He has drugs in his rings. You’re not the first one to be on the receiving end of that kind of punch.”  
  
“Tanek.” She rolls the name. “Appropriate. He was tank-y. Are they always so welcoming? Who’s Ballard?”  
  
“Do you always ask so many questions?” he said mildly.  
  
“Yes. And I’m not really a fan of repeating myself, so…”  
  
“Ballard runs the Council. You didn’t know…?” He looked suspicious, and took the cloth away. “Who are you--?”  
  
“Just got shipped in from California. Fresh and new and information-less.” She winced as she felt the cut on her face get wider. Better to stop talking so much. The weirdness – the fact that she was making with the small talk, and it was _Angel_. Not to mention the fact that Quentin Travers wasn’t a time traveler, and so she had the unseen Ballard to deal with, which was infinitely more difficult. “What do you do? Besides skulk in the moonlight?”  
  
“I don’t skulk,” he said, faintly irritated. “What did Hannah tell you?”  
  
“Nothing, nada.” She again tried to sit up. “She and Sabina told me about the Sydney Bristow impression they do every day and how it’s all about secret-keeping-“  
  
“I work with the Watch,” Angel said, and though he seemed befuddled by her slang, which she couldn’t be bothered to curb, he didn’t question it. Instead, he stood up, disappearing through the doorway. Sounds filtered through, dishes clattering, the _shush_ of sugar, a whistling kettle, a package being opened. His voice rose above, dipping and swaying like an ancient bathysphere and she imagined it being lowered into a dark ocean, amidst glowing fish and reflections of stars. She felt woozy, a little bloody. He spoke again, and she heard him. “Have you been to the Agency?”  
  
“The Whattie?” Buffy asked.  
  
Angel walked into the room, carrying a tray, with fat mugs balanced on it, and a pot of something that smelled of heat.   
  
“Headquarters. We call it the Agency. Tea?"  
  
He didn’t sit down on the side of the bed. Instead, he placed the tray on the chipped wood of the bedside table, and slid a chair over from a corner of the room. He had to remove a shirt from it, and Buffy felt suddenly strange with the intimacy. In this altered world, she had almost forgotten the details of their time together, but this felt awfully like his first apartment, and the cover she was laying on felt awfully like blood red velvet. She struggled to a sitting position.  
  
“Just a sip. I have to go.”  
  
He poured the golden liquid into a mug and handed it to her. She drank a bit and while it stung, it soothed her, and she breathed, breathed deeply.   
  
Angel spoke again. “Do you have to go?”  
  
It wasn’t so much a question. It was an echo, and she felt it like a bonebreak, all the memories of times she’d had to go, rushing forward like the tide. _You just got here_ , he’d whisper, and she would have to decide to break his heart, again and again.   
  
“I have to go.”   
  
As she stepped from the room, dripping blood from her cheek, he didn’t follow, but she heard his voice. “What’s your name?”  
  
“Buffy.”  
  
“Buffy,” he said and his—  
  
\-- “Buffy,” Sabina says, and it isn’t gentle, not even close to it. “What are you doing, still sleeping? Get up. We have work to do. What happened to your face? Don’t go out patrolling without us. Well, _get up_. What did I _just_ say?”  
  
+  
  
London is waking, balancing on the cusp of a new day, and Buffy walks the streets with Hannah and Sabina, blinking and awakening with the city. Her cut has dried up, and Hannah has scolded her about it, so it’s all good. She'd kill for a coffee, but there was tea, and Hannah lent her a blouse to wear, and a pencil thin skirt. It hugs the backs of her knees and she’s sure she’s waddling rather than walking.   
  
Out from an alley-way walk Blue, Kate and Margot. “Hallo,” Kate waves, and Buffy waves back. They continue down the street, smoking and chattering.   
  
“What on earth?” Sabina says.  
  
Buffy shrugs. “They’re friendly. I have friends.” She notices that Hannah’s face is red, and wonders just how sheltered she’s been. It’s strange, for a Slayer to be so shy and prim. _How do you deal with the staking and the running and the sometimes unavoidable straddling_? she wants to ask, but doesn’t. “Can’t I have friends?”  
  
“Those kinds of friends tend to disappear,” Sabina says.   
  
“Things never change,” Buffy says, and it’s a depressing thought. Nothing ever changes. She’s felt sticky, anxious, since she left Angel’s apartment, raw, as if she’s been stuck into new skin and taught to walk again. She hasn’t felt this way since she was sixteen and the Amazon ran between her thighs when he looked at her that certain way. The hot darkness of Sunnydale. “They never do,” she repeats flatly, realizing that she’s wet now, wet just from the memory of his hand against her collarbone, his hand that was able to hold her down against the mattress.  
  
“We’re here,” Hannah says quietly, and presses Buffy's palm, leading her toward the building. 


	7. Chapter 7

_Here._

Buffy swallows, shakes her head a little bit, dislodging the taste of stale grainy tea and memories of Angel from her mouth. Hannah’s palm is cool and her fingers long. Buffy can feel the edges of her nails – smooth, manicured and she looks down. They are painted navy blue and buffed to a pristine shine. _Who has the time_?

 _Here_ turns out to be a nondescript and rotting building on the corner of Bayswater Road. Like everything else around it, it’s been bombed to bits, and copper piping is spilling from the walls like looping intestines. The roof slants in the centre, almost jauntily, coming to an upside down peak. Buffy can see the kitchen from the sidewalk. Glass glitters like diamonds on its tiled floors.

“Not quite as impressed as I thought I’d be, you guys,” she says.

“Wait for it,” Hannah says.

Sabina unlatches the rusting gate, and goes first. Unlike Buffy, she’s mastered the art of walking in a pencil skirt. She reminds Buffy of a cat, and she’s reminded of how she’s never liked cats. The gate clangs noisily back into place and Hannah sighs, opening it again and ushering Buffy through.

They pick their way through the detritus. A snagged pair of women's nylon stockings, broken plates, packages of tissue blackened by fire, molding rugs, a pair of child’s shoes with a bow on the left, but none on the right. Buffy almost trips in her heels, skidding on what appears to be a poker from the home’s fireplace, and she curses herself, the damn shoes, the damn asshole who lived here with the fireplace, the Giles person who got her into this mess.

“Would you hurry up?” Sabina asks mildly. Her brows snap together with irritation. So maybe not _that_ meek and mild after all.

“Sure, I’ll get right on that,” Buffy says.

Sabina is leaning with one hip against the side of the house, or what’s left of it. Her hand balances delicately on a wrought iron railing, or what’s left of it. Although her brows once again register her displeasure at Buffy’s sarcasm, she says nothing, gliding down the stairs toward what must be the basement door. Taking her necklace off, she inserts whatever is on the end into the lock and it clicks faintly.

Buffy walks through the door with her usual sense of purpose, and stops short, running smack into Sabina, who takes the hit without moving a muscle.

“Impressed now?”

+

“What do you think of the Agency?”

Buffy hears the question, but takes a moment to answer. The woman asking it is staring at her with ferreting eyes, the kind that see everything and yet, Buffy thinks uncharitably, often miss what’s important. Evangeline Blackwood, the acting head of the Monster Watch (“apparently Imogen had an unfortunate run in with an Underground train,” Sabina said before they left) and as self-possessed as Giles, times, oh about a million.

She has the kind of hair that won’t accept static or frizz, and Buffy loathes her on sight. It sits perfectly in a French twist atop her perfect head, with its cheekbones that just won’t quit, and slightly pointed teeth in a wet red mouth. Her eyes are black as a starless night.

“Impressive,” Buffy says.

It is, actually. When Buffy stepped through the door, barreling along like she did everything else (damn herself for getting her _self_ into this mess), she wasn’t just surprised. She was, well, captivated. She’d rather have gargled with Doublemeat Palace burger grease than admit it, but there it was. Her mouth emitted a soft, “Oh” and she spun around, gazing up at the soft light glimmering through the domed ceiling.

Gone was the ruined house with its leftover garbage of humanity. In its place was a multi-storied palace. The marble floors shone slate grey in the waning morning. A reception desk sat unmanned in front of the girls, a cup of coffee still letting off steam and a mess of papers perched precariously on the empty chair. One wall was covered entirely by polished stone, and engraved with hundreds of names. To Buffy’s left she glimpsed a long corridor with seemingly endless doors and passageways. To her right was a series of elevators, each blinking at the top with lights.

Stepping closer, she could see that the floors were named. Floor Fourteen: Aviary. Floor Eight: Books and Bob. Floor Thirteen: The War Room.

 _Here be witches,_ she thought, remembering the old maps of Sunnydale. A sudden clutch of homesickness, and she shook herself.

“Where are we headed?” she asked Sabina and Hannah, who stood watching her.

Wordlessly, they pointed to floor seven – ‘The Forest.’

“Interesting,” she says now, to Evangeline. “I didn’t expect there to be an actual forest.”

“Why not?” the woman asks. “How else would we make weapons or sustain ourselves?”

“The supermarket comes to mind,” Buffy says.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“What’s to tell? Born, raised, became a Slayer.” It occurs to Buffy that perhaps she should try to get this woman on her side, even if she _does_ have perfect hair. “Of course, there’s a bit more to it than that… I mean. You know.”

“I don’t, actually,” she replies. “That’s why I’m asking you. We were never sent your file. Whistler is usually not quite so lax, but I suppose… desperate times.”

 _Oh Jesus._ For once, Buffy wishes for her sister and her enormous capacity for spinning bullshit. Thoughts float above her head like bubbles, and she grasps one blindly, saying a silent apology to her grandmother, there in the snow belt, unaware. She borrows her life.

“I grew up in Michigan,” Buffy says, standing and walking over to the display cabinet in the corner of Evangeline’s office, which is shaped like a hexagon and is actually warm and charming, unlike its primary occupant. Although, it _had_ used to be that Imogen’s office, so maybe she was the catalyst behind the gold walls and plush furniture. One full wall is taken up by a tapestry depicting unicorns and princesses, and the display case gives the impression of items lovingly collected over time.

“In Hillsdale, Michigan. Small town. Nothing ever happened there. I went to California because I wanted to be famous,” she continues, her thumb pressing into the glass, directly over the eye of a unicorn. The statue gazes at her. “Whistler found me in a bar in Los Angeles. I was working as a waitress, doing back shifts.” _Anne, with her candy striped apron._ “He told me who I was, _why_ I was.”

She hears him now, as she has not for many years, his words echoing, reverberating through and finding her with bloody clarity. _“Bottom line is even if you see 'em coming, you're not ready for the big moments. No one asks for their life to change, not really. But it does. So what, are we helpless? Puppets? No. The big moments are gonna come, can't help that. It's what you do afterwards that counts. That's when you find out who you are. You'll see what I mean._ "

Would she?

She thought she already had. But maybe not.

“So that’s the all. I traveled here to join up like a good soldier,” she chirps, turning suddenly and startling Evangeline, who has been examining her forehead in a compact mirror, scrunching up her face and letting it fall. It’s satisfying really, that someone so stunning could still worry about wrinkles. “I got lost – not really big on directions – and Ram found me and brought me to Hannah.”

“Not big on directions. I’ll remember that.”

Buffy shrugs. “It’s a Slayer thing, isn’t it?”

“No. Hannah is exemplary at taking direction and following orders. However, she _is_ strange. You all are. That, you share. I’m sure people have told you in the past.”

“A time or two.”

Evangeline nods. “While you’re here, I expect you to join in on the necessary chores and training. We all pitch in – some more than most – and it keeps this place running smoothly. You’ll also be assigned an area of research—“

“Research?” Buffy echoes, not sure if the dread dripping off her voice is apparent but hoping fervently that it is. “Slayers are more about action, less about wordage. Just a tip.”

“ _You_ are a Potential,” Evangeline says, but her voice is a whip.  “We all research areas that could help with potential battle. Do you have any particular areas of expertise? Demonology, perhaps? Plants useful for poison?”

“Killing vampires?” Buffy attempts. But her mind trips on a thought. She wonders what Giles would tell her to do.

“You really are quite diverting but…”

“I do – I suppose I have read a bit about, uh, time.”

“Time? My dear, I fail to see—“

“How it can be manipulated,” Buffy rushes on, Giles whispering in her ear. “How it can be used as a weapon.”

“When would you have read about that, given you were just called?”

“On the fl—ship over,” she shrugs. “I’m precocious.”

Evangeline’s red mouth thins into what might be described as a smile if you were drunk or high… or both. “I see. Well, by all means. I’m glad you’ll have something to occupy yourself with. I’ve asked our resident member of the dark side to give you a brief tour of the Agency. Ask him to show you the library on your travels. Barring any unforeseen circumstances, our next group meeting is tomorrow morning at eight sharp. I expect punctuality at all times.”

She walks out from behind her desk in one swift movement, like a striking snake. Buffy doesn’t waver. She’s seen enough snakes in her time.

Evangeline extends her hand, her syrup colored hair glinting almost white. “Welcome to the Monster Watch, Buffy. I’m sure we will be quite happy to have you here.”

+

“The resident member of the dark side?” Buffy asks, dubious. Her head tilts to the side. She’s still uncomfortable in her tight skirt and restrictive, sweaty blouse and this isn’t making it any better. She wishes for many things – leather pants, a stake, a drink.

Angel winces. “Did she really call me that?”

“Without even a hint of sarcasm.”

He hits the button for Floor fourteen. It only seems a moment until the door opens. She hadn’t even felt the elevator moving.

“After you,” Angel says. His voice is still shy. But it is different outside the hush of his small apartment. Different outside the bedroom, with the smell of him heavy in the air, the sheets he sleeps in underneath her body. She swallows, stepping out of the elevator, into the Aviary.

For a second, Buffy can’t see, and she feels her heart pulse in her throat. Angel’s hand brushes her bare elbow. He seems to know what she’s feeling because he murmurs, “It’s fine. Don’t worry.”

“Not comforting from a vampire,” Buffy says.

She blinks, once, twice and the world clears. Her breath catches again. “But – downstairs –“

“The lobby’s ceiling is charmed to look like this one,” he says, once again understanding her. “Imogen thought it was too beautiful just for the birds.”

“What happened to her?”

“Couldn’t take it, I suppose.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Who else am I going to ask?”

His lips curve into a half smile, like a ghost. “Point taken.”

Above her stretches gilded arches that form the dome of the Aviary. Buffy guesses they are at least one hundred feet in length, soaring to the clouds like the birds she can hear crying in their own private wilderness. Lush grass carpets the floor, and a river runs through the heart of the room. Buffy can’t see either side of it, or the ends. It seems to stretch on and on, an endless wood, full of trees and deer and winged things and roses. Like the dark wood of her dreams, spun into the daylight.

Her eyes sting and she looks away from Angel, unequipped to deal with any kind of tears around _him_ of all people.

“Hannah saw a unicorn up here once,” he says.

Buffy smiles, remembering how random he can be. Her brain hurts at the thought. Wasn’t he supposed to be munching on rat carcasses right about now? Or had that been… a line? It stretches her version of the truth, the idea of Angel using a line. Spike, of course. But Angel? He could barely bring himself to kiss her on the mouth, let alone – but then she remembers, that first meeting in the alley, with her skinned palms and breathless heartbeat. He had been so impossibly gorgeous, so confident and cocksure, and she had thrilled at his words. _I didn’t say I was yours._

Had he known then?

“How does one go about seeing a unicorn?” Buffy asks, partly because she would really like to see one herself, and partly because she remembers her passage through Time, and the unicorns seemed to be there so often she wonders if they are a symbol of something. _Something._ She mocks herself. Giles would be soooo proud.

“I wouldn’t know,” he says, without inflection. “They only come to the good of the world – the lonely. Those with virtuous hearts.”

“That doesn’t include you?”

“Not last I checked.”

His eyes fall on her, dark and hot. She thinks of their last meeting after Heaven (Heaven is always capitalized in her mind), of the first time they kissed by her window, the smell in the air, like burning. Of his large hands in her hair, his fingers cupping her skull, shaping it really, memorizing it. His body and his arms, and his thighs gathering in her legs so she would squeeze them together – because he knew, she knew he knew, what the pressure centered there would do to her. His belly, full of blood. His tongue left faint red smears on her nipples.

She looks away, her throat aching, her stomach so tight she could convulse. All of these memories, he can never share, never know.

“So, you’re supposed to show me the library. Evangeline’s orders.”

“Ah, the Agency edict,” he says, pressing the button for floor eight.

Buffy walks a few steps away, toward the river. She looks down into the water. Her reflection stares back at her, wriggling and wavering with the rushing depths. The upsweep of her hair, back from her face and styled neatly into a bun by Hannah (“Do you _not_ have any pins with you?”), the blouse knotted at the neck with a prim bow, the slender skirt, nylons with a line up the back (“Quite sexy, really,” Sabina said, “if you like that sort of thing”), dove grey scalloped heels. Her face is blush with make-up, flushed with desire. She looks younger somehow. Younger, as if by going back, she has reversed the lines put on her face by Dawn, by Angelus, by friends’ stupidity and by the thousands she has killed. By Joyce.

Her fingers reach down, just skimming the surface, and her reflection distorts, vanishes.

“Buffy?”

It is a question, and she answers it, as she always does, turning to follow him, wherever he might take her.


End file.
